


Kylo Ren's Last Ride

by TourmalineGreen



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Consensual Non-Consent, F/M, Femdom, Married Reylo, Or not, Pegging, Roleplay, The Trail Bride Cinematic Universe (TTBCU), but you should, established married trusting reylo, i mean it's your call, i said what what, please read The Trail Bride first, soft yeehaw, they fool around all the time it's fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-07 12:38:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19209592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TourmalineGreen/pseuds/TourmalineGreen
Summary: When he comes up to the house, the sun is almost set. Low on the horizon, it shades the grass and fields with a fiery peach and umber array. He imagines finding Rey already naked and spread out for him, the last of the sunlight kissing her bare skin, a prelude to all the places his mouth can go.When he opens the door, however, he is a little surprised to find it empty.When he hears the cocking of the rifle behind him, he stills, spiked through with a thrill of primal, unspeakable fear. Someone’s here—someone’s found them—someone’s hurt her—“So,” the voice behind him drawls, “this is the pretty boy who makes his home here.”





	Kylo Ren's Last Ride

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecretReyloTrash (BadOldWest)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadOldWest/gifts).



> Takes place after the events of The Trail Bride, which... if you're here and haven't read that, why aren't you reading that? Please, go do that first. Otherwise some things here might be slightly confusing and uhhh spoilery? Go easy on my conscience and don't make me spoil you okay bye. 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/17454824/chapters/41100980
> 
> Contains scenes of extremely enthusiastic homesteader consent-play, so be aware of that before you dive in! The roleplay aspect puts it sort of into cheerful marred dub-con territory.
> 
> SRT, this one's for you. Thanks for taking us on a journey.

Ben comes up from the barn one lazy, late-summer afternoon, his body sweaty and pleasantly tired from a long day’s honest work, and looks up towards the house with a contented smile on his face. He thinks of Rey, and how her very presence makes it into a home, rather than just an occupied structure, and despite his exhaustion he feels a thrill of anticipation at seeing her again.

Being apart, just for a few hours, has a tendency to feel something like torture. And for someone who has, in his wicked lifetime, experienced the true definition of that word, that’s saying something. He’s been to the edge of death, drowsed on the edge of consciousness until pain was a distant lover, woken up alone and desperate and so weary of life that only the thought of finding his wife had kept him from sinking back into the black depths.

Now, though, he is more than just living; he’s alive, with the scent of hay and flowers and good earth in his nose. The earth is alive around him with the promise of something wonderful to come home to. 

His wife, who he loves more than anything on this green and growing earth. Every day he thanks his lucky stars he has her by his side. Rey is good and strong and so capable.

She’s brave and stubborn—fiercely proud and unyielding, and he wouldn’t soften her for anything in the world. Being here, in this fertile place, has renewed his appreciation for all of her, the rough and the sweet.

Rough: Her words, sometimes. Her glare, her fire. Her temper, when wronged. 

Sweet: The noises she makes when she’s riding him, or beneath him, or when his face is buried between her legs. Her skin. Her laughter. Her teasing. Her touches.

At the thought of her, his cock stirs in his trousers. It doesn't seem to matter how tired he is, he's always interested in her. She captivates him, the way she is; he likes to make sure she knows it. Maybe he can impress upon her some of this undying affection in one of the myriad ways she seems to thoroughly appreciate.

When he comes up to the house, the sun is almost set. Low on the horizon, it shades the grass and fields with a fiery peach and umber array. He imagines finding Rey already naked and spread out for him, the last of the sunlight kissing her bare skin, a prelude to all the places his mouth can go.

When he opens the door, however, he is a little surprised to find it empty.

When he hears the cocking of the rifle behind him, he stills, spiked through with a thrill of primal, unspeakable fear. _Someone’s here—someone’s found them—someone’s hurt her—_

“So,” the voice behind him drawls, “this is the pretty boy who makes his home here.”

It’s Rey.

But—

But it isn’t.

“Who…” he says, although part of him already knows what role she’s playing. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Well I reckon trouble has a way of finding you,” she says. “Isn’t that so?”

He wets his lips. “I… Please don’t hurt me.”

“I won’t hurt you,” she replies, “If you cooperate. Don’t try anything foolish, now. Put your hands where I can see them.”

Ben slowly raises his singular hand, and his stump of an arm, the cuff of the long-sleeved shirt rolled up to reveal where it ends. _She knows he has just the one; she knows, and would never tease him for it, but this... this is something else entirely. They are playing pretend tonight, like he's truly the helpless homesteader and she's a heartless thief._

And Rey—this new, not-Rey who croons meanly in her voice—makes a soft noise. Not pity, she would never pity him, or pretend at it. But playing along, just as he is, with this scene she's set. 

“Oh,” she says. He can hear it, when she shifts in what must be the rocking chair, the way the wood creaks from her slight weight. “Well, then.”

“I don’t have anything of value,” Ben says, back still turned from her, playing along; his cock gives an impertinent twitch in his trousers at… at whatever this is. It likes the thought of her being in control. “But… whatever I have, whatever you want, just take it. Please. I’m not looking for any trouble.”

She laughs again. “Nothing of value? Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

Ben hesitates, says nothing; he’s willing to play along with this, what he thinks it is, or rather what he thinks it could be. Several possibilities, permutations of mostly-wicked ideas, play through his brain, but he has to admit that all of them play out with him as the aggressor, not Rey. Money, he thinks. She could want money, be playing the villain, like some kind of inversion of who he used to be.

"No," she continues slowly, as if waiting for him to turn, waiting for him to tell her to stop all this foolishness, "no, I reckon I can find something of value here."

"Whatever you want, it's yours," Ben says.

That's definitely not a lie, but he still isn't entirely sure which way the wind will turn here. 

But, in hindsight, her next words don’t surprise him at all.

Because if she’s playing the game he thinks the most about, the one that occupies his thoughts sometimes when he knows it probably shouldn’t, it’s not the theft of money or goods or supplies that excites him.

“Strip,” she says. Her tone of voice has no room for argument.

Ben feels a shudder go through him; he pretends, even play-acts that it’s one of fear. Here it is, the moment where this night could turn. It’s something they both seem to be aware of, the fact that he’s aware of his handing over of the reins to her.

Her hands always have been steady and sure. He would trust her with his life. And with this, too. Whatever she wants, he’ll give her. Every time, in every way.

So he gives into the anticipation, and lets himself enjoy being helpless and under her control.

“Please,” he says again. “I—my wife will be home soon, I—“

“Your wife ought to learn not to leave a precious thing like you alone and unguarded,” Rey says, biting on the words like they’re something sour, something she can taste. “Now, do I need to repeat myself?”

Ben shakes his head. His hair, now long enough to brush his collar, sways about his face.

With his one hand, he pulls one of the suspenders down over his shoulder, then the other. He works at the buttons, trying to decide what she’s doing behind him now. Does she react, when his shirt comes off? He knows she likes his body, and isn’t ashamed—or normally wouldn’t be—to do this for her. They have no secrets between them now. There’s no part of his body she hasn’t explored, he thinks.

“I can hear your brain working from here,” Rey says, voice cold and cruel. “But you can’t stop this. You’re completely at my mercy. Isn’t that true.”

“Yes,” he whispers. “Please, though… I—“

“The trousers, too,” Rey snaps. “All of it.”

Ben obliges her. Much as he wishes he could turn and look back at her, he obeys instead. Pushes down his drawers all together with his sturdy trousers, kicks them out of his boots with some awkwardness and stands there, still with his back to her, waiting for his next instruction. Even now, even after everything, he’s still ashamed and shivers off the feeling of her eyes on his brand. Kylo Ren. He supposed he would always be the man, always carry some of that creature inside of him. Maybe Rey wants to take her turn with that part, like an understudy in a theatrical. But he straightens his broad shoulders, lets her look her fill at the thing he hates the most of himself. The evidence, the twisted thing that will never fully heal.

He thinks: _Do you like what you see, Rey? Don’t you want to touch me, to let me touch you?_ He could eat her sweet pussy all day. Fuck her on his cock and make her scream and come for him as much as she wants. Is this the game she’s playing? A stud for her pleasure?

She doesn’t speak for a long while. Ben hears noises, though: The sound of the creaking of the wood, her moving in the chair. Then: Cloth rustling. Her clothing? There’s a sound of a… maybe a belt, something like leather, but he can’t be sure.

Then: The unmistakable sound—the sound he knows so very well, and loves so dearly—of her fingers squelching into her wet and eager pussy.

At this, Ben groans.

“Did I say you could speak?” Rey snaps.

“No,” Ben says. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” she says. Is it his imagination, or is her voice a little more tight now, a little more breathless? “I came all this way, expecting to take what I wanted from your sweet, charming home, and you tell me there’s nothing.”

“I don’t want any trouble,” Ben says, something prickling through him at the way she says that word, _home_. With a thick swallow and a slight hesitation, he tests his theory, adding: “Kylo.”

Rey laughs; the wet sounds increase. Christ, she’s making herself come right behind him, and he can’t even watch. She’s play-acting as him, some twisted, female version of him, using his name, working herself into a peak and he can’t even turn and look and appreciate it. It’s awful. His cock swells and points up to his bellybutton, it’s so hard, so eager; he doesn’t dare touch it, just lets his hand hang limply by his side.

“So, you know who I am,” Rey says, her hand still moving from the sound of it. “Smart boy. Sounds like you might just get out of this alive, if you’re that smart.”

Ben wets his lips. “And what… what can I give you?”

He hears Rey as she gasps and whimpers—a faint break in the show, maybe the sound of her delaying her own pleasure, he guesses—then, as she stands up from the chair. Hears it, when it knocks back against the wall behind her. She walks closer to him, and closer still, until she’s standing right behind him.

“I have something to give you, instead,” she whispers. “Something to give you, and then something I can take.”

Ben doesn’t understand.

He expects her to push him down by the shoulder, to step around him, in front of him, level her sweet pussy with his mouth. She really doesn't need to hold a gun to his head to encourage him to do that. This is not what she does, however. She just stands behind him, catching her breath.

Then, he feels the press of… something… against his left buttock.

His spine stiffens. Everything else does, too.

“No,” he says. And he knows he ought to protest, if that’s what he thinks it is. It’s unmanly, what she’s suggesting. It’s… it’s not done.

(Well, he amends, it _is_ done, but he wonders how she might’ve heard of such a thing. Maybe from the cathouse girls. Maybe she’s just wonderfully creative and inventive, all on her own. He has, after all, in the heat of the moment, wondered at the tightness of her own body, back there. Only gone so far as to try a single, oil-slick finger, once… Maybe that’s what’s been so inspirational for her. His lovely, clever, amazing wife.)

Her right hand falls gently on his back, right over his burn, her fingertips light but unmistakable, even over the gnarled flesh. Sensation has always been strange around that scar, and any of the other, more prominent ones. His arm is the same way, with spots of strange numbness bordered by areas of pinprick-awareness. She follows the curve of his spine, out over the upper back, dipping in above his ass.

Then, boldly, she cups him between his legs, seeking permission, he knows—or claiming ownership, for the role she plays.

“No,” Ben repeats, shaking his head, giving over to the touch of her little hand. “Not that.”

She doesn’t remove her hand. And, with the other one, she begins to pour... something… 

It’s the oil she uses for putting in her cap, he realizes. Cool oil, that allows her to part his ass and slick him up around that place he’s never explored.

Ben feels so hard he worries that this thought might actually make him lightheaded: The idea that she’s using on him something she only ever uses to push something inside of herself. The idea that he can take, as well as give. And he doesn’t feel delicate and soft and yielding—not the way she does.

But her fingers grow more firm, more sure, as she parts the cleft of his ass and finds his entrance. He’s too worked up to even worry about being dirty back there, but honestly, if none of their mutual filth on the trail bothered them, this isn’t likely to stop her now.

He kind of loves her for that. Loves her for a lot of things, but…

Ben whimpers. One of her fingers pushes against it—a weird sensation, not a bad one, and not a painful one—but he puts on a fine show for her, trying to twist away. His movement does the trick; her fingers slip out, swiping oil across his buttock. But he doesn’t dare move his feet. His toes curl in his boots.

She slaps him, a warning slap that barely even stings, on his backside. Ben squirms, reacts to it, but stays.

“You aren’t going to make a fuss about this, are you pretty boy?”

“I can’t,” he whines. “Please, I can’t. Please, Kylo…”

“I’ll be gentle with you,” Rey says. Her breath is warm on his back. Her fingers search and find him down there, still messy and coated with oil, so much that it’s dripping down the inside of his thighs. “I won’t hurt a precious thing like you.”

His hand grasps and flexes, looking for stability. Roughly, she pushes him forward with her left hand, and he stumbles a little, finding the solid oak trestle table that they take their meals at. She pushes at his shoulders and he folds over it, bending at the waist. With her boot-clad feet she kicks his legs to make him widen his stance. He lets her; He’s so long-legged, this won’t work otherwise. Oil slicks down the back of his balls, cold and fever-hot. Her fingers push in, testing the tension of his back entrance, circling messily there.

One finger slides in; he whimpers, his hand tight and white-knuckled on the edge of the table.

“Shh,” she says. “Shh, now. Aren’t I being gentle with you?”

“Y-yes,” he murmurs. “But—“

“Then hush,” she snaps.

He can feel whatever it is she must have strapped to her body sliding against his skin, some kind of wooden phallus that she’s slicked with the same oil. All these years, all these times he’s fucked her on his cock and loved to watch the way he disappeared inside of her, it had made him feel something wicked and darkly proud to see her taking him so good.

(That first night—their first time together—he recalls the scent of coppery blood and grass and dust and oxen, the heavy-limbed exhaustion from the trail mingling with the clockwork-wound tightness of anticipation. Finally having her. Finally fucking her. Then her pain and discomfort, his size, which had always been an asset in the cathouse, now a hinderance. But he’d gone slow with her, let her adjust. And things had been okay, from there on out. Except for the part where he’d nearly died, but that hadn’t been the fault of his cock. Mostly, anyway.)

He’d taken his time with her, been ever so careful. Never wanted to hurt her, and had wanted to show her that things could be sweet, and delightful, and playful, between a man and a woman. A husband and a wife. Wanting to crow with praise when she finally took all of him… he’d never once imagined he’d be in that position. He hopes she hasn’t started him out with something that’s as proportional as he is.

And then, his throat chords and bobs with a swallow: _Started out._ Already he’s making plans for the next time she can do this to him, and she isn’t even fucking him yet.

He’s going to lose his goddamn mind before the day is done.

“You’re so tight, aren’t you?” Rey asks him. “Don't fret, now. I’ll get you loosened up and ready for me.”

Christ, he hopes she does. Already he’s panting with need, head turned to the side, cheek on the wooden table as his mouth goes slack. He both does and does not want to look over his shoulder at Rey, but until she says he can, he doesn’t even peek. Then, she replaces her single, probing digit with two, and he keens high and loud against the table.

Rey stops.

“Please,” he begs, almost stuttering on the word, cock painfully pressed against the edge of the table. “Please, Kylo, please… I can’t—“

“Yes you can,” she says, and resumes her confidence, resumes pressing the two fingers in. Her left hand swipes over his shoulder, down the stump of his arm, then across to his ribs, finally holding him at the hip. “You can, oh, I wish you could see how pretty you look like this, taking my fingers so well.”

Ben whimpers. Whatever it is inside of her that makes her make those noises, he knows, rationally, he shouldn’t have—he hasn’t got the same configuration of parts down there, but her hand searches out, fingers twisting and turning as his entrance slowly eases open for her fingers, and it feels intense, but good, so good, so fucking good—

“Ah!” he cries out, shaking against the table, when her fingers come round to press against something new and different and _specific_ inside of him, something he’s never felt before, but with each press it feels like she’s stroking his cock from the inside of him somehow. It feels like a lightning storm is gathering, like his cock is leaking now and he can’t stop it. Her fingers work and stroke and push, feeling her way inside of his tight passage. Ben feels his jaw tense, a low noise in his throat that sounds like a distant storm on the horizon. 

His hand grips the table because what’s left of his rational brain knows if he removes it, he’ll want to grab for her, and _she hasn’t said he can, she hasn’t told him—_

“Such nice noises you make for me,” Rey says, petting back his hair.

As she does, crooking the fingers of her right hand inside of him, swiping across his face with her left, he realizes he’s crying. There are tears coming down sideways across the bridge of his nose, making his cheek slip on the wood as he gasps for air and tries not to cry out louder. What a glorious, ruined mess he is. Her mess, through and through. 

“You can keep making those noises,” she says. “I like hearing what this does to you. Such a big, strong man, coming undone for just two of my little fingers.”

“T-three, please,” Ben stutters, giving up all pretense of being afraid of her and just outright begging. “I—“

“Shh, I’ve got you,” she answers, and, slipping out her two, she applies more oil and clusters three for him to take.

It’s harder for her to curl them against that place now, but the fullness of it, the stretch—he’s gasping now, and she’s slowly thrusting into him with just her hands. His blood is pounding in his ears; this is a thousand times worse, and yet somehow better, than anything he’s felt before. It’s just so different, not just the thrill of the forbidden, but the fact that it’s _Rey’s hands_ that are doing this to him, Rey’s hands and voice and soft breath and gentle caress and firm commands which are taking him apart, piece by piece.

She can have him, all of him.

Every single piece of him has always, will always, be hers. Even when he was too stupid to know it. Even when he didn’t deserve for her to even touch him, liar and killer and fraud that he was.

Every single piece.

“Do you think you can take me?” Rey lifts her left hand from his skin and trails even more of the oil down her right hand, down where her fingers disappear inside of him. “You’re doing so good for me, but I think you can take me.”

He understands what she’s asking, maybe hears in her voice how she’s broken the illusion of this game, too—she wants this.

But he loves the game. It feels good, being under her power, at her mercy. There are times when he wants to take charge, times when she lets him; this is not one of those times. 

“No,” he says. “I can’t, I don't think I... _please.”_

Rey laughs softly; he has no idea if he’s a convincing actor at all, but by the way he can distantly tell that his ears are hot he suspects she can tell how much he wants this. Setting aside the fact that he is bigger and stronger than her, there's also the fact that his hips can't help but rock up to her touch, asking with his body what his mouth won't say. They both know: He could stand up and stop this any time he chooses. 

He chooses differently.

Rey slips her fingers out, and for a moment, he bits back a whimper of need at how empty he feels; it’s so strange and new and unreal to feel like this, not at all like when he’s fucking her, but oh, how he loves it, loves being taken care of by her.

“Shh,” she gentles him, and he can feel the tip of the smooth wooden phallus as she angles it against him and begins to press in.

For one long moment he thinks, it really is too much. Nothing is meant to go in there, only out from there. But he is oil-slick and her fingers have made it a little easier, if only by degrees. She holds him, once the tip of it is in, with both of her hands on his broad and sturdy hips, and then she’s pushing in and in and in until he can’t catch his breath from the fullness of her. 

“My cock looks so good inside of you,” Rey says—but her breathless voice betrays her, how hot she is for this, how aroused.

Ben feels his cheek slip against the wood again, like he can’t stop the tears from coming. He’s a wet and sticky mess and he hasn’t even come yet. He screws his eyes shut and gasps and whimpers and oh, he’s undone for her, he feels like he’s falling, when he feels the press of her hips and the leather straps she’s using to hold the thing to her body come into contact with his ass. Rey grinds against him, moving, just pressing into him, against that place that makes sparks zing up and down his body, pleasure curling at the base of his spine.

“Don’t…” is all he can manage, and even he forgets what it is he was trying to say. _Don’t do it?_ That can’t be right. _Don’t stop_ is much, much more likely.

Rey just keeps grinding. He hears her gasp as she moves, can fucking smell her on the air, how wet she is from this. He loves the fact that she’s just taking what she wants from him, using him to rub up against what must be the base of what’s inside of him, making herself come. Each tight circle of her hips makes the thing inside of him press against that place, and his chest is rising and falling, and his mouth is wet and open, lips drying, panting and making rough-hewn ‘ah, ah, ah’ noises as she finds the rhythm that she likes.

He’s just a thing to be used; he’s just something that exists to please her. That’s been true for years, now, so it’s so easy to just surrender to this. He could shift, and part of him craves the sensation of his hand or, fuck it, her hand, around his cock, but it all happens so quickly he doesn't even have time to consider the logistics of accomplishing this. 

Rey cries out in pleasure, and at that sound, Ben comes, hard, jerking and shaking apart like the earth struck by that lightning. He’s a broken, shattered thing, voice loud and hoarse as he hollers his pleasure into the cooling night air. His balls draw up and his cock twitches, eager to be inside, to be warm and held, by hand or mouth or pussy, and his seed spills on the floor and, fuck, on the table, probably. They _eat_ here. Maybe he’ll get to feed it all back to her if she comes, too.

“Fuck,” he gasps, “Fuck, fuck fuck, _Rey_ —“

It’s her name, her true name, that breaks the spell. Rey slips out of him, helps him lumber across the cabin and into their bed. He’s dazed; feels like he’s just run a dozen miles without catching is breath. His skin is clammy, his hand shakes. His ears are ringing.

Thank Christ he’s horizontal. His knees feel like they were a minute away from buckling.

Dimly, he can hear her fumbling with buckles and straps. He lays there, stunned and useless, utterly wrung-out, as she fingers herself to another quick completion—seconds, probably; no longer than a minute for her to keen and cry out. He loves the music she makes.

Then, like a gift, she presses those wet fingers to his mouth. He sucks and laps at them, tasting her, cleaning her with his lax mouth and lazy tongue.

Several long minutes pass. The two of them simply laying there, breathing.

Night has fallen outside the cabin. He feels cool and calm and content, if a bit loose and… opened, back there.

The thought of it—all of it—makes him laugh. The tears on his face are drying in the cool breeze.

Rey rolls to her side and kisses his cheeks, first the left, then the right, slowly and carefully tasting the salt from his skin. He reaches for her with his hand, groaning a little when she pulls back. She leaves him—unthinkable, the cruelest pain he’s ever felt, branding included—and then comes back, a wet cloth in hand.

She wipes him down. First his face, then his legs, shoulders, torso. She takes his boots off, then hers, sets them by the door. There’s so much he wants to say, but speech has fled from him. How can he explain how he feels?

Rey wrings out the cloth and comes back with it cool and clean again. Then, finally, she cleans his cock, and has him set his legs up, knees bent, so she can clean back where she was inside of him. He’s oversensitive, shivering and shaking. He has to touch her. Maybe he manages to say this, he doesn’t know, but Rey croons to him softly, and leaves the wet cloth on the floor with a wet slap, then gets back into bed with him, and covers them both with a quilt.

Ben mouths eagerly at whatever part of her body presents itself. It’s her shoulder, he thinks. Gently, she negotiates them into position: his chest pressed flushed with hers, limbs tangled with her limbs. Facing her, holding, being held. There’s so much he wants—needs—to tell her. About tonight, about how much he adores her, how magnificent she is, how strong and how capable. 

"Did I...?" she starts to ask. "Was—"

He just holds her closer. He's not hurt, he's not frightened. She's done nothing that he didn't enthusiastically enjoy. He hopes she can feel it, in his embrace. But all he can manage is a soft "I love you," as a wave of bone-deep, contented exhaustion claims him. A murmur of a "Thank you," as she rests there, skin against comforting skin. He's so grateful that she sees him for what he is. Grateful that she knows him like this: True and raw and honest. 

Grateful that he can fall, and she can be there to catch him. To gentle him, when he comes down. 

In his arms, Rey hums. He can hear her smile in that sound.

“You’re welcome, Ben,” Rey says. “Sweet dreams.”


End file.
